Shadowchild
by Bronzehyperion
Summary: Bella Swan wants to die. After several failed suicide attempts, she ends up in a facility called the Cullen Sanctuary. It's there she meets Edward Cullen, son of the founders of the facility. Not only does she find him extremely obnoxious, she also finds him hard to ignore. Especially when he offers to help her find a way to end her life. One-Shot FOR NOW


**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and its characters. I own this story.**

**All plotlines, characterizations, and details in Shadowchild belong to the author: Bronzehyperion. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without the author's authorization.**

**©2012 Bronzehyperion. All rights reserved worldwide.**

**Warning: This story deals with attempted suicide and occasional graphic details. Some might find the callous way Bella speaks of life and death offensive as well. ****This story is rated M for a reason.**

**Big Thanks to my BETA'S Litmom & IcarusToSun**

******This story was part of a large story compilation/contribution for Fandon for No Kid Hungry**

* * *

**SHADOWCHILD**

_I balanced all, brought all to mind,  
The years to come seemed waste of breath,  
A waste of breath the years behind  
In balance with this life, this death._

Part of W.B. Yeats' "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death."

Ever since I've been old enough to understand life I have had this bizarre aversion to it.

Seven years ago I took an overdose of aspirin, and to this day I am not sure if I actually wanted to die, or if it was a strange fascination that had spiraled out of control, but what I do remember is the glorious feeling of drifting away in a beautiful oblivion. Free of insecurities, worries, and mostly, free of thinking. Or rather - over thinking.

The experience taught me that death is easy. Peaceful.

And life…

Life is hard.

Too hard.

"Ah, Miss Swan. I see you're back with us."

I know what he's going to do because it's obvious from the way he greets me. Right now he is being casual, but professional. Perhaps there is a hint of pity, too.

It's standard and typical doctor bull crap that I have seen before. They don't really give a shit, but they can't afford not to at least pretend to care.

Sometimes I feel like giving these types of people some lip, but today I have so little energy that all I can do is simply lean back against the crisp white pillows and count the yellowish specks on the ceiling.

It's better to ignore this guy and his soothing tone anyway; that way it'll be over sooner. He can go back to pretending at someone else's bedside and I can go back to hating myself for this failed attempt at trying to take my own life.

Jumping in front of a bus that wasn't even going 10 mph. No wonder I am only a little banged up, instead of very much dead. An amateur move for someone who should be a pro after all these years.

"This is the second time you've been in here in eight weeks. That worries me."

Duh. It should worry him. He is a healthcare professional. He's taken an oath and all that. First do no harm or whatever. And since I like harming myself I can see why he would be worried. It'd be weird if he actually said he didn't give a shit.

Funny, but weird.

"Miss Swan?"

"Your ceiling needs a fresh coat of paint," I remark casually, pretending not to hear the concern in his voice.

I know how this works and I simply don't care that _he_ has to pretend to care. I don't care about the words he might have lined up to try and get me to see a different perspective. Or that he is obligated to do this. The effort is wasted on me.

If I cared at all - about anything he has to offer me - I wouldn't be here.

"You find importance in the state of the ceiling?"

I know what he is trying to do…he is trying to pull some sort of psychological bullshit on me, but I am not buying it. It's "been there and done that" for me. This Doctor Hale isn't the first one to believe he has the magic cure to save me.

"I don't care, but someone might. Imagine if they are lying in this bed, dying and looking up at the ceiling, looking for God or whatever, and all they see are these brown spots? How cruel would that be? What are they anyway? Is it pee? Shit? Blood?" I muse, causing the doctor to chuckle.

That gets my attention. I don't want to look up but there is something about his laugh….it's genuine. He is not laughing out of professional courtesy or to ease my discomfort or whatever. He actually thinks what I say is funny.

When he looks away I allow myself one peek at him. He's in his late twenties with blonde floppy hair that falls over his forehead. His eyes are a piercing blue.

He resembles a rock star, rather than a doctor.

Alice would drool over this guy, no doubt.

"It does look rather horrible," he agrees.

I think he expects this to be a conversation starter, but really, it isn't. And so, all too soon, we shift back into a silence that is probably uncomfortable for him but suits me just fine.

The doctor keeps his mouth shut and looks at me intently.

It's the kind of look I hate. A look that says "I can see right through you" and that's exactly what I don't want.

But the longer he stares, the harder it is to ignore him, to pretend I am unaffected.

I have to try to fight the urge to snap at him and tell him to look away, or give any kind of reaction. I can't let him see that yes, there is something inside me, albeit a small part that he can still reach. It's the part that has failed me, the part that has prevented me from dying so far. The part that should get overruled by the far more dominant part that wants to die but never is. Maybe that's the biggest mystery of all.

How someone who hates life with such a fiery passion, can't seem to get rid of it.

"Well, I'd better leave you alone, so you can get some rest. I'll come back to check on you later," he tells me pointedly.

I don't say a word and continue to stare at the ceiling until Doctor Hale leaves the room. Later to him means he'll drop the pity act and go into pep talk-mode, where he tells me life is great and I should buck up.

That should be rule number one with doctors. Never tell someone who has attempted suicide, someone who wants to die, to "buck up"- it'll have the opposite effect.

Once the doctor is out of sight, I breathe a sigh of relief, glad the probing is over for now.

It's not this doctor, or this place. Okay, maybe it is the place, too but mostly it's me. I don't want to be saved. I don't want to be alive. It's the most bizarre concept to most people, and the wide range of therapists I have spoken to through the years have never understood, but it's very simple, really.

I don't want to be alive. There is really nothing more to it. Death is easy. Peaceful. Life is just so darn hard and I am tired of having to pretend it means something to me.

It also doesn't help that in general I don't like people very much. Most of them are like aliens to me and I am sure I come off as just as weird to them. And no, I am not pretentious. Then again, perhaps I am. Maybe I am pretentious about life and that is the reason I am so callous about it.

But the thing is, when life is a struggle for no apparent reason like being abused by parents or being bullied at school, it's hard to explain to anyone why you long for death.

If I mention dark clouds that hover over me constantly, people think I am depressed and need Prozac or whatever medicine is supposed to treat that. I tried telling people that a few times but stopped mentioning it when therapists started suggesting that it was "just teenage depression" because it was and still is an unfair assessment.

The only thing I know for certain is that I want to die. That's why I have been in the hospital two times in the past few months. The bus failed to do the trick last night and so did the unfortunately dull blade of the razor a month before that.

Perhaps the problem is that I have never been able to explain why in a way people understood. Most think I am nuts or desperate for attention. Perhaps if people understood that tiny part of me, buried deep, that's still fighting, it would finally fall away. Maybe I want to be heard, before I die.

Too bad one one ever does.

* * *

"He is totally cute though...I mean...I would definitely make out with him like a slutty groupie if I were given the opportunity."

My best friend Alice is lounging on the foot of the hospital bed, talking a mile a minute about some lame band she is suddenly a fan of. I nod and smile but don't really give a damn. The only reason I pretend to be remotely interested is because when Alice stays, it means Doctor Hale won't disturb me with what I know is coming.

New medication.

More therapy.

And of course, unwanted pep talks.

Alice provides a lovely distraction from all of that, even if I am only postponing the inevitable and I will eventually be confronted with another round of "Let's save Bella."

The best thing about my best friend is that she never judges me. And Alice always judges everything.

But not me. Not my actions. Not ever. She never yells, never blasts me for ending up in here again.

Though maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe that means she thinks I am a lost cause and that there is no point of making the effort.

Which I guess I am - a lost cause - ergo it shouldn't bother me. It's what I want after all. To be deemed unworthy of saving, so maybe people will stop trying to.

"You should see my doctor," I offer, knowing that Alice would have a fit if she saw Doctor Hale.

"Is he a hottie?"

"You would find him attractive," I tell her. "He looks like your rock star wannabe lead singer from that band...Dead Monkeys?"

Alice frowns. "100 Monkeys. And Jackson is not a wannabe. I wish the band hadn't fallen apart," she sighs sullenly.

I envy her. I wish I worried about trivial things like bands breaking up or Hollywood stars screwing their way to the top. But my mind doesn't know how to handle simple things.

If only…

"When are they letting you out?" Alice asks casually and it seems she has shaken off her sad mood and daydreams of lead guitarists who want to do her in their dressing room, to focus on my useless recovery.

"Not sure. Doctor Hottie," I smile grimly, "told me to rest."

"Hmm, well, it better be soon. Because this place is depressing," she chuckles at her own joke. I laugh with her because she expects me to. Because I owe her that instead of some morbid remark on how I am hoping I'd never end up here again.

Because in reality that's the truth. This is the last time I end up here. Next time it'll be the morgue.

* * *

The parentals, Charlie and Renée, look worried, which isn't a good sign. Granted, they look worried all the time so it's not a surprise, but still. It doesn't bode well.

I have been in the hospital for three days and apparently that's the mark for being released because that's what's happening today.

I get to go home. That is not surprising, although the absence of recommending new prescribed pills I won't take and therapy I won't like - the usual "treatment" for me- strikes me as very odd.

Maybe that's why they look worried. Because they know that I am going to try again at some point, and when I do, maybe this time they won't be able to save me.

I look at Doctor Hale, who's writing something on a notepad. The movement of his blue pen on the paper is strangely mesmerizing and I only snap out of it when my father scrapes his throat, clearly announcing he has got something to say.

"So uh, Doc," he starts, "are you sure this is going to work?"

_What, dad? What will work? Give me something…a clue. What's happening?_ I keep these questions to myself though.

"Charlie," my mother intervenes before Doctor Hale can open his mouth. "The doctor says this place comes highly recommended."

_What place?_ I want to ask but I am not sure I want to know the answer.

"It does," Doctor Hale nods. "Really, you won't be disappointed, Mr. Swan."

"Well that all depends on the outcome, now doesn't it?" My father huffs.

I make an attempt to listen but they are all speaking in riddles that make my head hurt.

I watch as the note that Doctor Hale wrote now passes on to my father, who reads it, nods and then puts it in his pocket.

"The arrangements have been made," Doctor Hale proceeds to tell my parents. "They're expecting you."

More questions arise and a sinking feeling of despair bubbles up….something is going to happen. Something bad.

"And the insurance covers it?" My father asks, to which the doctor nods.

They then rise and I do the same, still very much clueless but with a suspicion that's growing. They have to be talking about me. They have to be thinking of some kind of plan. But what?

"Thank you, Doctor Hale," my mother says sincerely, followed by my father who grumbles something similar.

"Bella, I hope you'll feel better soon," Doctor Hale says as he takes my hand, and I watch with fascination how he shakes it gently, without any effort from me.

I hope I feel better soon, too. Meaning I don't have to feel anything at all.

We leave the office and my mother takes my arm to guide me to the exit and the parking lot. I guess she is worried I'll run, which is a justified concern. Except that I haven't gotten a clue what I'd be running from.

When we arrive at the car I am surprised to find a sad looking, lip quivering Alice standing there.

She is definitely not her usual cheerful self.

'Who died?' I want to ask but none of them would probably find that humorous.

"Alice?"

"Hey Izzy-B", she waves sadly. "Are you ready?"

I shrug, not knowing what it is I'm supposed to be ready for. If she means "ready to go home", the answer is no. Though there is comfort in the idea that I get to lay awake at night and stare at my own ceiling instead of the germ infested one in the hospital.

My father urges us to get into the car and as we do it doesn't escape my attention that my mother and Alice are exchanging odd looks.

More mystery, I suppose. Whatever they are hiding, there is no way I am going to like it.

As soon as we're all seated and my father, ever the cop, warns about seatbelts, we're off to what I assume will be home.

But he doesn't take the familiar road from the hospital to our house; a road I have travelled quite a few times before.

Instead, we get onto the highway.

"What's going on?" I ask and I try to hide the panic that's building inside me. I refuse to let them see it.

"Bella, honey, you have to go away for a while," my mother starts.

"So you're going to a special place in Forks," she adds. "They can help you there."

"To get better," Alice finishes.

I look back and forth between my mother and my best friend, thinking they have gone insane, but then it hits me.

They're having me committed. I shouldn't be surprised because in a way it's long overdue. I mean, if I were a normal person and someone I knew was like me, I would have had them locked up a long time ago. But I suppose my parents preferred to turn a blind eye until now.

Still, committed. That has to be the greatest hell of them all. To be confounded in a place like that, I am certain I won't be able to handle it.

And so, I turn towards the passenger door and wonder how soon I'll be dead if I jump out of the car.

It isn't planned, but perhaps this morbid spontaneity is fitting to the situation.

But the clicking sound of a lock popping into place crushes my idea and when my eyes shoot up, they land on my father's face as he looks at me from the rear-view mirror.

He shakes his head in disappointment once and he sighs deeply.

I bet he wonders when exactly his daughter became such a tragic figure.

* * *

_"The Cullen Sanctuary"_ a sign in pretty calligraphic letters reads, and I try not to panic because it wouldn't help me if I did

My parents are having me committed in this place, with its pretty calligraphic letters and its exterior that looks like a friendly version of a haunted asylum. At first sight the building looks more like a modern day villa, quite light and open, but the way it's been swallowed by the green forest surrounding it makes the building look appropriately eerie.

The black iron gate that closes behind us with a cringing thud makes me jump.

And the creepy feeling this place is starting to give me magnifies when I stare up at the second story of the building and my eyes catch a figure standing behind the glass of one of the rooms.

I look away in shock when blazing jade-colored eyes meet mine, and for a moment I am sure that this figure - a ghost? - was flashing me a taunting smile. However, when I take another peek, there is no one there and I wonder if I am already losing my sanity.

Perhaps it's an instant side effect upon arrival here.

Maybe this place is like those insane asylums you see in scary movies. Maybe the ghost will murder me.

Death by murder. Not what I would have thought of, but means to an end and all that…

My father pulls me from the sinister thoughts that are starting to form in my mind by scraping his throat as he cuts the engine.

I look out the window again and we're in front of a large entry now. It's almost friendly looking with the wild array of colored flowers in large vases on each side of the broad wooden door.

On top of the stairs leading to said entry are a man and a woman, probably in the same age range as my parents though a bazillion times more attractive.

And If I were a smiley person, their friendly open faces would probably attract me and cause me to smile too.

But since I am not, I roll my eyes as my mother speaks.

"That's Carlisle and Esme Cullen. And this is the Cullen Sanctuary. Your home for the next six months."

* * *

**_WEEK 1_**

I hate my parents. And Alice. And these stupid white walls. And this bed and this room and everything.

I also hate the fact I hate all this, because I wish I didn't feel anything at all.

This place, Forks, looks like it's made out of trees. There is an insane amount of green. Not to mention a buttload of rain. This place is altogether dreary looking, which I guess it fits my mood, but for some reason it makes me even more depressed to think that I am stuck here with people I don't want to be stuck with.

This place, a loony bin for lack of a more appropriate term, is run by the Cullens; Carlisle and Esme. I have met them both and while they seem nice - the hippy kind of nice, the kind that wants to hug you and sing Kumbaya all the time - their friendliness bugs me. It's not that it's fake, because I know that it's not. It's just that I genuinely do not understand how people can actually be this friendly.

But that's not all. I can handle their cheeriness because I am learning to tune it out. And I can hate my parents and my best friend for bringing me here because I know that the emotion will either eventually fade or it will help me feel less guilty when I finally succeed in actually killing myself.

What I can't handle - and I can't stress this enough - is the son.

Edward Cullen.

He hangs around this place like he owns it, which I suppose in a way he does, considering the fact his parents run this place but that doesn't mean he has to act like such a douche.

And believe me, he acts like a douche all the freaking time.

I have been here for less than a week and every time I run into him, I want to kill myself more. Okay, maybe that's not true. Maybe I want to kill him a little more than I do myself. For now anyway.

It is hard to explain why he bothers me so much. Maybe it's partially due to the fact that he acts so smug, like he doesn't have a care in the world. It's sort of ironic in this place, where no one is feeling particularly happy.

He could be a little more subdued, right? But no…he is not.

The other issue I have with him is that he is hot. Like extremely hot.

His hair is the oddest color between bronze and gold and copper and auburn, and his eyes...those blazing green eyes that look like jade emeralds...they are hypnotizing.

The world is unfair. Though maybe that is the way it works. The hot people have it easier than insignificant ones like me. And I don't want to be bitter, but it's kind of hard not to with him rubbing it in my face every time I see him.

I don't understand why he has "picked" me to focus on. I am ordinary and plain with my mousy mahogany hair and dull brown eyes. I am too pale and don't have any kind of natural charisma.

Wallflower would be an apt term to describe me.

It's something I am okay with because I am used to it. I don't mind being below par, average. What I mind is this asshole bugging me. That is what I have issues with.

I can't seem to escape him either. He is always around somewhere.

I wish he would pick the blonde supermodel chick named Rosalie who is in here because she likes to cut herself.

Or maybe the dense girl named Jessica who has so little brain space I honestly don't understand why she could possibly be here, but the fact she keeps whining that she's in need of a drink leaves me to suspect her self destruction issues come from a bottle of hard liquor.

But not me. It's unfair to pick me.

And yet somehow he has.

It started during the first night I was here and I shied away from everyone by sitting by myself in the recreation room, under the watchful eye of bodyguard number one. His name is Emmett and he is huge. Huge, but nice enough. I just wish he wasn't watching me like a hawk constantly.

As I picked at the edges of the book I was pretending to read, a chair next to me was pulled back; the scraping hurting my ears like nails on a chalkboard and there he had been; Edward Cullen.

At first I had thought he was a patient too.

"What're in for?" he had asked.

I had debated to either lie, tell him the truth, or ignore him but before I could decide, Emmett had come over.

"Cullen, beat it. Stop harassing the patients, man."

Cullen. As in related to...Carlisle and Esme?

Edward had shrugged at Emmett and gotten up slowly, leaning in with his lips close to my ear. "I am Edward. See you around, Bella."

He had smiled and waved this creepy but oh so alluring smile before he'd strutted away.

Ever since he had bugged me whenever we crossed paths. And this morning is no different.

"Bella Swan. How are you?"

I hate that I kind of like the way my name rolls off his tongue, even if that's a very bad thing. It's becoming an odd ritual, the way he always knows where to find me.

Thankfully, because he frustrates me so immensely, I ignore him as I scoop up a grey looking oatmeal-like substance onto my spoon and debate eating it.

I suppose I could stop eating and simply try to starve, but I am sure I'd only end up in the hospital hooked onto an IV when I did that.

Besides, Esme and Carlisle are very strict on eating. And while I want to be defiant, I know that I need to make them believe a little while longer that I am here to change, here to get better.

That is the only way to get them off my back and gain the freedom to successfully end my life.

"You're not going to talk to me," he says and I just know he's smirking at me, even if I am not looking at him.

I am pretty sure he is not even supposed to be here, mingling with the crazy people. But he seems to relish in it. He basks in the dark glow of the miserable, tragic people around here.

I guess it makes him feel good or whatever.

"Ugh," he says as he points at the steaming bowl of grey disgustingness.

"My mom is so not the best cook. I'd suggest taking some toast with scrambled eggs instead, but I know from experience it is probably burnt. Plus, I bet the eggs are extra crunchy thanks to the shells she managed to scramble, too."

Edward chuckles as if he just said the most hilarious thing, when really I find it pretty denigrating, the way he speaks about his mother. So to not give him any incentive, I continue to ignore him.

"Ah, the silent treatment," he muses quietly when he notices I am not going to talk to him. "Does it make you feel better to ignore me?" he wonders and there is a hint of something I can't quite decipher in his voice.

He's not being cocky now; in fact he almost looks sad.

"You know, I could help you" he says knowingly.

My interest piques and my eyes shoot up to meet his, and then the cockiness is back.

He smiles because he knows I am biting like a large fish on a sharp hook.

I want to ask him what it is he wants to help me with and I dare not hope it is what I want it to be.

He can't know how much intrigued I am because when he does he'll have power over me, and it is bad enough people around here own me because I am forced to stay for six months.

But I am curious and it's true what they say; that kind of behavior will kill the cat. I am the cat and I want to be killed and if this obnoxious boy has the answer to that I want to know.

When my mouth opens to ask him for any kind of clarification however, a friendly but firm voice calls out to him.

"Edward, you need to get ready for school!"

Edward looks over his shoulder and sighs. It's his mother and she doesn't look pleased, confirming what I thought earlier; that he is not supposed to interact with us crazy folk.

I expect him to walk off but he turns back to me and leans in far too close for my liking.

"Tonight," he whispered knowingly.

"Tonight?" I ask dumbly.

"Midnight, the recreation room," he says, almost irritated. "Don't be late."

And then he's gone.

* * *

I didn't think it was possible to hate Edward Cullen more than I already did. But it turns out I am dead wrong because here I am waiting for him and he's a no-show. So, on top of the general douche bag persona he displays so eagerly with everyone, he also seems to be extremely unreliable.

In this case that's incredibly unhelpful and unfortunate for me. I don't even know why I am surprised though. He probably enjoys making me squirm so much that he set this up. I bet he is having a good laugh about luring me here right now, in the safety of his room, thinking of how he set up the poor mentally unstable chick he likes to piss off so much.

I check the clock as the needle glides past the 12 again. It's officially ten minutes past midnight and no Edward.

Didn't HE tell ME not to be late…?

I huff in frustration and debate what to do next. The smart thing to do would be to go back to my room, but my building fury at Edward's absence keeps me rooted in place. I want him to show up so I can unleash this anger on him. How dare he be the one who's late?

I mean, he has to know how freaking difficult it is to sneak out of my room at night. The only reason I managed to make it past the burly night guard named Jacob is because he was too engrossed in whatever sports game he was watching. It provided enough distraction for me to slip past him without getting caught.

Though to be honest, I am not impressed with that guy's guarding track record, since I've heard both Jessica and Rosalie brag about meeting their boyfriends outside the gate more than once.

Clearly he isn't doing the best job.

I look around me as I tap my sock clad foot against the foot of the table I sit on.

The recreation room should look creepy now, with the way it's only lit by moonlight. But oddly enough, this room bothers me more during the day because it's a space filled with expectations, especially from the therapists that roam around to see if making paper flowers or painting on large canvases indicate any kind of progress in the patient.

Tonight however, it's a room filled with promises. Of course, if Edward Cullen has decided to screw me over then I'll…

"You'll do what?" a husky voice sounds in my ear.

I quickly grab my chest and try to shake off the fact that I am startled, as a smug looking Edward hovers over me, making me feel like he is undressing me with his eyes.

This is unlikely, although with Edward you never know what he's thinking or doing, and he is kind of a perv, so…

And it's just my luck that I had to spew that stuff aloud. Now any kind of clever retort I could use as a come-back is stuck in my throat.

"I'll tell you this, Bella… if I would screw you… you would thoroughly enjoy it."

His hot breath caresses my ear and I want to push him away as much as I want to bask in it.

But then his confident tone and the absurd and inappropriate sexual innuendo remind me of my anger.

"You're late," I mutter, which makes him chuckle. "You said midnight."

"My apologies." He grins and his eyes shine brightly as the moonlight creates an insanely beautiful and distracting halo around his copper and bronze mop of hair.

"It would seem that my own parents play night watch better than the dumbasses around here," he says. "It took ages for them to go to sleep. I am sure you had less of a problem with Jacob."

He sneers the name and I don't know why, so I shrug. Then Edward sighs and I recognize the sound as that of a teenage boy frustrated with parental authority. I know how he feels. For a moment, it seems like we're old friends who could be chatting about obnoxious parents and how much we occasionally despise them.

Except that's not what this meeting is about, nor why we're here.

"You said you could help me," I point out, not beating around the bush.

"You don't like wasting time, do you?"

I frown. I don't want to drag this out. I don't want to stand here and chitchat when all I really want is to know what it could possibly be that Edward Cullen has to offer me.

I sigh and almost long for the small room with the pristine furniture and equally pristine sheets that is my prison now. A prison with no personal mementos or reminders of what my life outside this place is like. There is no outside. There is no life and that suits me just fine. Standing here with Edward takes energy I don't have and effort I don't really want to make. Or so I tell myself.

"How can you help me?" I press on. "Just tell me, or stop wasting my time."

"I help Jessica and Rosalie sneak out whenever they want a night outside of this place," Edward starts casually. "I could extend you the same favor."

"I don't want a night outside of this place," I mutter, feeling my heart sink at the realization that I had hoped Edward would have something more sinister to offer me.

_Like what, Bella? _I chide myself_. You think he'd offer you some pills or a rusty razor to tear away your flesh and chafe away those arteries until you bleed to death? Or maybe he doesn't mind being the one to give you a determined nudge when you stand on the rooftop or a window ledge..._

"No, I suppose you don't," Edward murmurs, pulling me from my reverie before he suddenly grabs me and spins me around to face him.

He looks like a wild animal that's ready to pounce. Frightening and beautiful.

I hate that I am intrigued. Intrigued means there is a mystery and the growing longing to crack it. I can't have that. Life can't be interesting like that.

"You want a different kind of exit. A different kind of nightfall." He breathes. "You want to die."

I am stunned. I know I shouldn't be because what he's saying is absolutely true, but I am. It's one thing to think about death constantly. But to hear Edward say the words, words that are laced with anger I don't understand, I just don't get it. How does he know this is what I want? And more importantly; why would he care?

"How…"I start before I snap my mouth shut.

"I know people's issues, Bella," Edward says simply. "My father may think he is hiding the files of his patients properly but he isn't. I know the combination of his file cabinet."

"Why would you?" I ask but again more words get stuck in my throat. It's not like I really care that he snoops, I don't think I expected less. But the idea that he knows things about me…my scars both emotional and physical, for some reason it bothers me.

"I get bored, Bella," he says casually. "See, unlike my parents who think they can cure the bunch of you, I think most of you are pathetic cry babies who want attention or have watched too many episodes of a CW channel teen show and suddenly think going emo is hip."

I want to protest but he holds up his hand.

"…And then there's you. The girl who downed a bottle of aspirin when she was twelve years old. Tore open her veins by cutting her wrists at fourteen. And most recently you jumped in front of a speeding bus. Except that, well…it wasn't speeding, so here you are…

"Alive and well," he says wryly. "Such a shame, no?"

"Why do you want to die, Bella?"

I snort because he's not the first to ask me that. Well, he is the first without a PhD to ask me.

"I just want to," I shrug which causes Edward to roll his eyes.

"Now you sound like the spoiled brats who want attention," he scoffs. "And that's not what it's about with you."

"What is it about with me?" I ask, hoping to distract him.

"You want to die. I don't exactly know why yet and I don't think you do either."

"...still I want to help you," he announces like it's some sort of huge honor. He shouldn't flatter himself though; it's not about the "who" with me, it's solely the "how" or rather "how soon."

"You want to help me…die?" I ask, full of disbelief, It's definitely the first time someone has offered me that.

"Yes, I think I do."

He hesitates and that bothers me. If he's offering his help to end this, he shouldn't dangle it in front of me only to take it back. That's cruel. Of course, he probably has no idea just how cruel that is.

"You think?" I say icily.

"Well, the thing is Bella..." I chide myself again for enjoying the way my name sounds on his lips, "I want you to be sure you want this."

"I want this," I tell him.

"Maybe so, but you can't seem to tell me why," he muses.

I sigh "You've read my file, so you know why"

He chuckles darkly as if my words amuse him. "Your file is full of notes from people who haven't a clue about why you want this. I bet you don't even know why. And you clearly need someone to help you figure it out."

"What is so hard to get; I want to die. If you want to be the one to proverbially push me under the bus, by all means. If all you want to do is play mind games, then stop bothering me"

Another smile. "Easy there, angry kitten. I want to help."

I can hear the "but" coming before he verbalizes it.

"But I am not getting your proverbial blood on my hands until I know you're certain."

My mouth drops a little. I knew this would happen. First he promises me things and now he is already reconsidering.

I want to get angry, but anger with me often results in tears and I don't want him to see me cry.

"You're wasting my time," I say and I want to stalk away but then Edward's arm shoots out and grabs me.

"I do want to help," he assures me and his voice is surprisingly soft. "I just want you to be sure. So…"

"So," I squeak, surprised he stands this close to me, since people usually shy away from me and I from them.

"So I ask for one month. One month for me to show you the alternative; to show you life. If after that month you still want to die, I'll help you find a way."

A month is long. Perhaps too long. But I can't think of any other way in the meantime. I could jump off the roof, but that's too violent. I don't want my death to be violent; I want it to be peaceful. Life is already hard enough; I don't want my death to be as well, as strange as that may sound. Some strong kind of medication would be preferable, so I can just sink into a deep sleep, only to never wake up. The one I almost had before when I was twelve and downed the aspirin, until I woke up in the hospital with a pumped stomach, of course.

Maybe I shouldn't waste my time on Edward. I could found a way to off myself instead. With incompetent guards it might be easier than I think.

"Stop that," Edward chides me, and I look up in surprise.

"Stop what?"

"You're thinking, debating. I can tell. Just say yes. There is nothing to lose for you. One month. You've survived for this long, what's four more weeks."

Four more weeks can be a lifetime.

"You promise?" I ask, hesitant. "One month?"

Edward nods. "Yes, I promise."

I take a deep breath and before I can put further thought into it, I nod. "Okay, one month."

His rewarding smile does strange things to me because it's genuine. This guy, who doesn't know me at all and is offering me this very morbid deal, seems happy about what we just agreed upon.

"I have to go," he announces suddenly. "And you should get back to your room, too. We wouldn't want you to get caught," he grins.

I nod, dazed by his sudden happiness,

"Do you need any help getting back...need me to provide a distraction?" Edward winks and I shake my head. Like I said before, this Jake person is a huge idiot and if everything is still like it was an hour ago, I can sneak in easily.

"I'll be fine," I say, to which the bronze haired boy in front of me nods. "Yes, you will be," he agrees before he brushes an invisible hair off my shoulder, squeezes my arm and let's go of me.

"Sweet dreams, Bella," he says softy before he turns to leave. For a brief second I want to believe that they will be, until the grimness of my usual train of thought takes over and I long for permanent sleep.

But then Edward halts in the doorway. "_Sleep_ is _good_, _death_ is _better_; _but_ of _course_, the _best thing would_ to _have never been born_ at _all_" He quotes Heinrich Hein in an extra dramatic voice before he gives me one more nod and disappears out of sight.

One month. One month and then I can sleep forever.

* * *

**_WEEK 2_**

One freaking month. That's what Edward promised. One month, that's what I had given him. I'd use that month to convince him I was certain I wanted to die and he would use it to try and convince me life was epic and amazing and worth living and all that.

One month, yet here I am, almost a week after we made a deal and I have yet to see him again. He normally creeps about this place like he owns it, taunting all of us crazy people by pretending he is perfectly sane and normal, walking with swagger, talking like he is king, and now no one has seen him.

I heard Rosalie complain about it this morning during breakfast, and Jessica had been whining all day yesterday that she missed her boyfriend Mike and that she needed to talk to Edward so he could help her get out of this place for a night to meet said boyfriend.

I, of course, kept mum and didn't complain about his absence because I didn't have that luxury. No way could they know about the deal Edward and I made.

It's too morbid for them anyway.

"Isabella?"

I look up and realize I drifted off again. Doctor Cullen, yes Edward's father, looks at me expectantly and I don't know why. I am almost a hundred percent certain he asked me a question, I just can't recall what.

"Hmm?" I offer to explain that I haven't been listening.

"Tell me about the first time you believed you were better off dead than alive."

He flashes me a simple smile and suddenly I remember why I tuned out the moment he asked me the same question a few minutes earlier. His smile is like Edward's. Cheeky, crooked and mesmerizing.

I mean, it's not like I find the good doctor mesmerizing, that would be creepy. Plus, he gets on my nerves way too much, so there is no way I could ever look at his obviously attractive features and see it as anything but an older version of Edward's…attractive features.

But that's the real issue. I apparently find Edward attractive. And mesmerizing. Especially in my dreams.

See, that night, five nights ago, when we made a deal of life and death and he told me "sweet dreams" after, he hadn't been joking.

I had dreamt of him every single night since then. And you should know I never dream. Unless you call the pitch black holes I sink into whenever I close my eyes dreams.

But now Edward is starring in them, where his hypnotizing eyes haunt me and his full lips come too close to my own and that's not a good thing, because dreams are supposed to be meaningful and I don't do meaningful.

Meaningful equals I might have something to live for and that simply can't be. So maybe it's fitting that I haven't seen him since and that his promises may very well be worthless. At least that means I don't have to keep my end of the bargain either.

"Isabella?"

I shake my head and try to focus on his question. For a moment I allow Edward and his obviously meaningless promises to fade into the background of my mind to concentrate on what the good doctor asked me.

When was the first time I believed I was better off dead than alive?

He knows I tried to down a bottle of aspirin when I was twelve; it's in my file after all. Perhaps Doctor Cullen thinks that was the first moment I ever considered it.

But the truth is, I don't remember when exactly I first felt this way. When that feeling of doom and gloom, that was so overpowering it crushed me on a day to day basis took over and I started doing extreme things to try and end my life. Maybe the feeling was always there; perhaps I am born this way, as that wacky Lady Gaga would put it.

"I don't exactly know," I admit lamely. "I think I always felt that way but it took a while for me to be old enough to understand the feeling," I add with a shrug because I still feel weird for actually giving this guy these honest peeks into my mind. It's information he could use against me after all.

Doctor Cullen nods as he plays with his clicky-top pen without writing anything down. I have noticed he isn't big on taking notes, which I suppose means he has a good memory.

"You believe you were born with this feeling of despair; the feeling you'd rather be dead?" He isn't shocked, he just analyzes and maybe that's what I find comforting. All the other doctors always tried to get into my brain like I was a science project, a code to be cracked, but not this guy.

It is almost as if he doesn't care about the answers and the mystery. He doesn't seem to want to cure me with long listed analyses like some others have strived for; he just sits there and listens and observes me. Maybe that's why I don't mind answering his questions, even if the actual sessions drag me down.

"I never felt like I wanted to be alive," I say.

"Hmm. That must make you sad."

I refrain from rolling my eyes and shrug. "I guess."

It's a lie and perhaps he knows it, too. I am not sad for feeling this way, I just feel frustrated that I have yet to succeed in my attempts to end my life. And now my one solid chance seems to be gone too.

I hate that Edward seemingly bailed on me and I hate that I think of him so much.

When my morning session with Doctor Cullen ends, I realize how I spent most of it drifting off and thinking of his son.

The doctor bids me goodbye and tells me he'll see me again tomorrow.

When I walk through the halls, with my trusty watchdog named Seth beside me as he guides me back to my room, I think of ways I can kill myself here, daydreaming about the moment where my heart stops beating.

But my options are limited and the feeling of despair stays with me when I enter the recreation room for my creative therapy session.

I sit down at an unoccupied table, one next to the table where Rosalie and Jessica have taken up residence.

"This sucks," Jessica mutters. "I hate group…"

No kidding. There is nothing fun about group therapy. It's not so much actual therapy as it is making freaking cards in the recreation room this morning.

A room that reminds me of Edward.

I hate that even more. I don't want to think about him and his inability to keep a promise. I had been right before when it looked like he was dangling this offer in front of me. He simply yanked it away, like it meant nothing.

Which is exceptionally cruel because I don't want him to treat my need for peace this lightly. It shows that he doesn't understand what it feels like to want to be dead, and while I know that it's a good thing he doesn't understand, it also kills the idea I had that maybe we have some sort of messed up kinship. It's strangely disappointing to think you have an ally when it turns out you don't.

I also hate that we are treated like little kids here. Crazy people who can't run with or even touch scissors because they might endanger themselves. Every piece of decoration has been cut already, measured to match our fucked up minds.

"I need a smoke," Rosalie bitches.

Jessica and Rosalie are complaining again and I think of what Edward said, of how he characterized them as wannabe emo's, girls who wanted drama because TV had made it look so cool. It's not like they knew real pain.

"I am out...maybe Edward has any?"

My ears perk up at his name and I instantly chide myself for being so attuned to anything relating to him. I mean, when did this happen? When did I become so desperate for any mention of him? And what are the ramifications when I give into that feeling?

"He hasn't been around for days," Rosalie pouts. "Seriously, I am going mad in this place."

"Me too," Jessica whines. "I wonder where Edward is though. He is like always around."

I try not to roll my eyes at the ditsy way she speaks.

"I heard through the grapevine he's been sick."

"No way," Jessica gasps. "Did he get like get mono or whatever."

I focus on my fingers as I keep listening. They usually ignore me anyway but I don't want them to notice that they have captured my attention.

"Fuck Jess...Mono? The guy has a cold or whatever. Mono...seriously…"

A cold. Edward has a cold. He didn't break a promise...he has a cold.

A simple "happens all the freaking time" cold.

I am relieved, which is another scary feeling. I am also pissed because he didn't let me know.

That's an even scarier feeling because there would be no reason for him to let me know.

So why do I wish he had?

It's not until two days later, almost a week after we made a deal, that I see Edward again. It's unexpected, the way he pops up out of nowhere, like an apparition in a scorching desert. This is pure irony, since it's drizzling and windy and I wonder why we even have to do these afternoon walks when the sun isn't out.

Not that there is a lot of sun out here anyway.

I know we're being watched by Emmett, who's on duty this afternoon, but Edward doesn't seem to care, and Emmett doesn't tell him to go away.

"You were gone," I say accusingly as I try to walk on the wet slippery path without tripping, while Edward casually walks beside me, having no trouble navigating his feet.

He chuckles and then coughs. Clearly he hasn't recovered entirely. "You missed me?"

I shrug "I was worried you would back out…"

"Back out on my promise," he guesses as he kicks at a few tiny rocks.

"Yes."

"Please," he scoffs. "I don't break promises. No, I was battling this darn cold. Seriously, never in my life have I seen this much mucus."

I grimace at the image and he laughs. "Sorry, too much information."

"It's the weather," I mutter. "Too wet."

Another chuckle. "Perhaps. It's the first time you've shown some interest in something other than death though," he remarks grimly.

I try not to bite or get defensive because Edward is wrong. The weather is craptastic here and anyone would notice that. It doesn't mean I care about it. It's simply stating a very obvious fact.

"Anyone would notice this weather," I scoff.

"I was talking about my health," he says. "It's sweet of you to care."

I want to tell him that I don't care, but I am sure he would know I am lying.

So I deflect instead. "Jessica and Rosalie have been looking for you. I think one of them thought you had mono."

For a moment it works because he laughs loudly and shakes his head. "Mono...I bet those bitches know all about catching mono."

But then he turns serious again and grabs my hand suddenly. "I want to show you something. I wanted to do it before but then…"

"You got sick."

He nods. "The weather should be clearing up soon; there is this place I like to go. Will you come with me?"

I look back at Emmett, who is watching us and shake my head. "I am on his watch," I point out.

Edward shrugs. "Emmett is cool, he won't mind if you take a walk with me."

"Your parents might," I point out.

"Fuck them. They think that they can cure you with finger painting and mind analysis. That's not going to work."

"You think you can cure me?" I frown.

Edward smiles. "All I know is that I have a month to try."

Getting Emmett's permission is surprisingly easy and it is seriously making me question the professionalism and ability of the Cullen Sanctuary. Their night guard is a tool and one of their regular watchdogs during the day gives Edward a fist bump, a stern look and tells him to bring me back here in this spot close to the back entrance of the facility in an hour.

I have no idea what Emmett will do in the meantime. Perhaps he'll fight off imaginary bad guys with kung fu power moves. I mean he is a big guy but he has a funny side and I can see him doing an imaginary fight. I giggle a little at the idea and shake my head at my own absurdness. This, naturally, gets Edward's attention since he has never seen me smile before. I must look absurd.

"What's funny?"

"I was just wondering what Emmett would be doing right now," I explain to him.

"Jerking off, peeing in the woods, smoking a joint," Edward lists off, laughing as my mouth falls open at his suggestion.

" Kidding, Bella. I am sure he is probably enjoying the hour of silence, away from the crazy loons he has to watch all day. No offense."

I roll my eyes. "Not everyone in there is crazy. Some people are just desperate," I point out.

"Are you desperate?" Edward asks and I hate that I have given him the opening to ask.

"You know what I want," I point out.

"Right, the girl with the death wish" he says, acting all blasé. "Well, nothing is written on that tombstone just yet," he mocks dryly. "And a month is a long time."

"You promised," I warn him. "Just because I give you a month, doesn't mean I will change my mind."

Edward says nothing and looks ahead before he picks up the pace.

"Where are we going anyway?" I wonder as I try to keep up. We are walking past fallen trees, deeper into the woods and I am fairly certain I hear a river nearby.

"You'll see," Edward says, smiling as he looks back at me. "It's not far now."

"Tell me," I demand, because I hate surprises and I am getting tired of walking. It takes a lot of energy to make sure I don't fall flat on my face and I kind of want to sit down.

"I have one month to make you change your mind about wanting to die, so I have to make the most of it."

"By kidnapping me and leaving me in the woods," I say jokingly.

Edward halts abruptly and I almost bump into him. "That's not funny," he mutters.

"But casually joking about me wanting to die is?"

"That's what you want, isn't it?"

I say nothing as Edward starts walking again.

"Come on," he says, noticing my hesitation. "I won't leave you in the woods. I won't put you in the type of danger that could get you hurt...or killed. I promise."

I sigh.

"Disappointed? Did you hope I would leave you to die?" Edward asks bitterly.

He doesn't wait for my answer and I don't ask him why he seems so angry.

Instead, I simply follow him.

There isn't much that holds beauty or meaning for me and until I met Edward, I never paid much attention to my surroundings because I hardly ever made the effort to care.

But I have to admit that the place he has brought me is captivating. Even in my morose state it's impossible to ignore the beauty of it.

We have stepped out into a field that has the most beautiful arrangement of wildflowers growing. Red, blue, purple, yellow, white...and colors I can't even name or describe. It's magical and I know my mouth is hanging agape as Edward pulls me by the hand into the field, where rare rays of sunshine have suddenly appeared. I realize I hadn't even noticed that the clouds had disappeared. The sun casts a bright halo on the trees, the flowers and the soft looking grass.

When we halt in the middle of the field, Edward doesn't let go of my hand. Instead he holds it tightly and I am all too aware of the strange electric current that's passing between us as we touch. I try not to pay attention to that as I absorb the richness of colors and the softness of the wind blowing around us. The fact that the sun is out and it's actually warming my skin and melting away the usual frigidness of my goose bumps is a miracle in itself. I can't believe it had been drizzling only thirty minutes before. This is definitely the first time the sun has been out since I have been here in Forks.

Edward keeps watching and scrutinizing me and I feel naked. It's a frightening feeling to be this exposed. I have scars on my wrists that I'd rather show him than to have him stare at me like this, knowing he is trying to dissect me emotionally.

And of course, he does.

"Beautiful, isn't it...Isabella…"

I am surprised he is using my full name, since he has never done that before.

"I...yes."

There is no denying that it is in fact all very beautiful.

"Your eyes," he murmurs as he steps closer. "You should see them."

I gulp as he leans in and brushes his knuckles against my skin, leaving a burn in the wake of the sweet gesture.

"What about them?" I whisper. I know what my eyes look like. They are dull, brown. Dead.

"They're shining with golden specks," Edward says. "You look alive. I wish I had a mirror so you could see, but this'll have to do."

There is no time to ask him what "this" means, as he leans in and stares at me, holding my gaze - and when I try to look away he grabs my face gently.

"Look at me, Bella," he says softly in nothing but a whisper. "Look into my eyes and see what I see right now. Look at the reflection of your own eyes."

I do as he says because it is impossible to look away. I blame his jade eyes and their power to captivate me. I don't know if he notices that I am not even looking at my own eyes that are reflected back at me. All I see is him.

This guy with all this bravado and a bad mouth on him who claims he wants to save me, but may very well be fucking with me instead.

In those jade eyes, as green as the grass beneath us, I see something I had never seen before.

Hope.

And maybe it isn't just in his eyes, maybe there is a little of it in mine too. I see more than just this moment, more than a minute from now, or an hour, a day...

I don't cringe when Edward's lips press against my forehead. I don't even ask him why or tell him not to.

I just bask in the way my heart starts beating erratically, pounding against my chest fiercely as Edward's lips touch my skin and stay there while his arms find a way around me.

I sigh and for once it's not a sound of despair or longing to have it all end.

If anything, it's the opposite. I long for more of it. More time to feel this alive.

I am not completely foolish though, I know this feeling has an expiration date.

That my life has an expiration date.

But until then, I'll keep my end of the bargain. I'll give Edward what he wants.

One month.

* * *

**For now this is a oneshot. Maybe/hopefully someday a multiple arc story. **


End file.
